


even more of exactly the same

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-10
Updated: 2011-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-20 07:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why are you afraid?” Charles asks, and Erik laughs, mirthless.</p><p>“You’re terrifying,” he says, and it’s the most honest he’s ever been to a man who can dive into the worst corners of his mind and come out unscathed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	even more of exactly the same

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Frightened Rabbit's "The Modern Leper".

For some reason, they make a habit of playing chess. Erik cannot figure out how it became so common, as neither of them is very good; Erik hasn’t had time for games, was stripped of childhood early, and Charles had an abundance of time, perhaps, but no one to play against. It’s Charles’ lucky night, however, and he’s four moves away from checkmate, Erik assumes, if he has any idea what he’s doing, how to exploit Erik’s weaknesses.

Charles isn’t very good at all that, mistakes ruthlessness for cruelty, and Erik finds him weak for it, but hopes it never changes.

Erik has a pocket of loose change, rolls the pennies and nickels and dimes together, lets them sink into one another as Charles plans his next move, methodical. The metal heats under his fingers, molten as it melts into a mess of money, but he is not burned.

“Tell me,” Charles starts, and then pauses, as if choosing his words. He doesn’t finish the sentence.

“I imagine you could find out anything you want to know,” Erik says finally, when it looks as though Charles is not going to continue.

“That’s cheating,” Charles says, and there’s mirth in his eyes. He’s too easy to read, his face an open portrait, guileless and naïve. Erik doesn’t like it. It’s a reminder of how easy he’d be to crush, how easy to tear open. Charles has the innocence of a child, in some ways, and his face has offered an open secret to Erik for days. Charles has offered himself to Erik for days.

If Erik were less of a person, he would take him, but he knows he couldn’t hold him together, knows that, eventually, he’d have to break him, and Erik has seen too many things broken in his life to be willing to be the executioner. Not of Charles.

“Tell me something,” Charles says.

“What do you want to know?” Erik asks as Charles moves his bishop, melts metal under his fingertips and surveys the board like a battlefield.

“Everything,” Charles says, open face, open voice, and it’s unfair, it’s so unfair, that Erik can have what he wants for once, and he isn’t willing to take it.

“Charles,” he says, a warning, but Charles isn’t listening, Charles doesn’t care, watches him with his eyes like summer, a slump in his chair that’s obvious in how practiced it is. He’s a fucking child.

“Erik,” Charles mimics, rolls the word around on his tongue like it’s a sweet, and Erik stares at the board so he doesn’t have to look at Charles’ face.

“Erik,” Charles says again, softer, and Erik looks up. “Please,” Charles says.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Erik says.

“Don’t I?” Charles asks, with a small, ironic smile, too knowing to sit well upon his face.

“Perhaps this is a game best played later,” Erik says, pushing his chair back.

“Or not at all?” Charles asks, still with that ironic fucking smile.

“I’m not a toy,” Erik says, and Charles raises an eyebrow, too calm by half, collected, like a boy who knows he can have anything he wants. He can; that’s the part that’s infuriating. “You don’t get to put me back on the shelf when you’re bored.”

Charles’ face opens up, and then there’s a real smile, bright as a flash. “You, my friend, could never be boring,” he says.

“You have many toys,” Erik says. The children tucked up in their beds like innocents, the grounds, vast and lush, the whole world under his fingertips, quirks of genes and undiscovered potential.

“No one would describe you as a toy,” Charles says. “You’re a weapon.”

“Children shouldn’t play with weapons,” Erik says, but it’s too quiet, too weak, and he knows he’s going to lose this match.

Charles reaches across the table; his queen wobbles under a flippant knock of his hand, but ultimately stands. His fingers brush over Erik’s wrist, pulls his hand out of his pocket, the coins melting like quicksilver from his fingers.

“You’re afraid,” Charles says, fingers too hot against the back of Erik’s hand.

“I thought that was cheating,” Erik says.

“Why are you afraid?” Charles asks, and Erik laughs, mirthless.

“You’re terrifying,” he says, and it’s the most honest he’s ever been to a man who can dive into the worst corners of his mind and come out unscathed.

“Come to bed with me,” Charles whispers, and Erik knocks the table as he stands, the pieces scattering across the board in an even draw.

“Come to bed with me,” Charles repeats, until Erik kneels to knock the words out of his mouth, kiss him hard, demanding. It’s ruthless, and Charles returns it in a way Erik couldn’t have expected, not yielding, not soft, his fingers a brand on Erik’s arms, like he’s unwilling to let him move even a little.

This is stupid, he knows, thinks it hard enough that Charles must hear him, must know, because this is so stupid, and this is not going to leave either of them unscathed. But Charles shoves it out of his head, somehow, mouth a brand, throat a long line that Erik wants to mark indelibly, body an untouched canvas, all easy living and urges fulfilled. Erik marks the hollow of his hips with bruises as Charles straddles him, thighs taut with effort and cock hard and hot, leaving lines of pre-come against the scarred, hard plane of Erik’s stomach.

“Please,” Charles says, over and over, until it doesn’t mean anything anymore, just a burst of breath against Erik’s ear, less important than the span of his body, the rut of their cocks against one another, all kinds of desperate. Erik doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but whatever it is, he wants to give it to him.

The thought is terrifying.

“Charles,” Erik manages, and his voice doesn’t sound like him, gone rough around the edges, more of a growl than a word. Charles comes against him, paints over his skin while he shakes above him, and Erik holds him until he calms, leaves more bruises to litter his skin.

“Come to bed with me,” Charles murmurs against him when they’ve settled, leaves a sloppy, too affectionate kiss on the hard line of Erik’s jaw.

“This is going to end in tears,” Erik says.

“I know,” Charles says. “Come to bed.”

Erik says, “Alright.”


End file.
